Greg Egan - SS - Neighbourhood Watch.pdf - Greg Egan - przemosta

Neighbourhood WatchNeighbourhood Watch by Greg Egan “Neighbourhood Watch” |

“Scatter My Ashes” | “Mind Vampires” Horror Stories Back to home page |

Site Map | Framed Site Map My retainers keep me on ice. Dry ice. It slows

my metabolism, takes the edge off my appetite, slightly. I lie, bound with

heavy chains, between two great slabs of it, naked and sweating, trying to

sleep through the torment of a summer's day. They've given me the local

fall-out shelter, the very deepest room they could find, as I requested. Yet

my senses move easily through the earth and to the surface, out across the

lazy, warm suburbs, restless emissaries skimming the sun-soaked streets. If I

could rein them in I would, but the instinct that drives them is a force unto

itself, a necessary consequence of what I am and the reason I was brought

into being. Being, I have discovered, has certain disadvantages. I intend

seeking compensation, just as soon as the time is right. In the dazzling,

clear mornings, in the brilliant, cloudless afternoons, children play in the

park, barely half a mile from me. They know I've arrived; part of me comes

from each one of their nightmares, and each of their nightmares comes partly

from me. It's day time now, though, so under safe blue skies they taunt me

with foolish rhymes, mock me with crude imitations, tell each other tales of

me which take them almost to the edge of hysterical fear, only to back away,

to break free with sudden careless laughter. Oh, their laughter! I could put

an end to it so quickly … “Oh yeah?” David is nine, he's their leader. He

pulls an ugly face in my direction. “Great tough monster! Sure.” I respond

instinctively: I reach out, straining, and a furrow forms in the grass,

snakes towards his bare feet. Nearly. My burning skin hollows the ice beneath

me. Nearly. David watches the ground, unimpressed, arms folded, sneering.

Nearly! But the contract, one flimsy page on the bottom shelf of the Mayor's

grey safe, speaks the final word: No. No loophole, no argument, no

uncertainty, no imprecision. I withdraw, there is nothing else I can do. This

is the source of my agony: all around me is living flesh, flesh that by

nature I could joyfully devour in an endless, frantic, ecstatic feast, but I

am bound by my signature in blood to take only the smallest pittance, and

only in the dead of night. For now. Well, never mind, David. Be patient. All

good things take time, my friend. “No fucking friend of mine!” he says, and

spits into the furrow. His brother sneaks up from behind and, with a loud

shout, grabs him. They roar at each other, baring their teeth, arms spread

wide, fingers curled into imitation claws. I must watch this, impassive. Sand

trickles in to fill the useless furrow. I force the tense muscles of my

shoulders and back to relax, chanting: be patient, be patient. Only at

night, says the contract. After eleven, to be precise. Decent people are not

out after eleven, and decent people should not have to witness what I

do. Andrews is seventeen, and bored. Andrew, I understand. This suburb is a

hole, you have my deepest sympathies. What do they expect you to do around

here? On a warm night like this a young man can grow restless. I know; your

dreams, too, shaped me slightly (my principal creators did not expect that).

You need adventure. So keep your eyes open, Andrew, there are opportunities

everywhere. The sign on the chemist's window says no money, no drugs, but you

are no fool. The back window's frame is rotting, the nails are loose, it

falls apart in your hands. Like cake. Must be your lucky night, tonight. The

cash drawer's empty (oh shit!) and you can forget about that safe, but a big,

glass candy jar of valium beats a handful of Swiss health bars, doesn't it?

There are kids dumb enough to pay for those, down at the primary school. Only

those who break the law, says the contract. A list of statutes is provided,

to be precise. Parking offences, breaking the speed limit and cheating on

income tax are not included; decent people are only human, after all.

Breaking and entering is there, though, and stealing, well, that dates right

back to the old stone tablets. No loophole, Andrew. No argument. Andrew has a

flick knife, and a death's head tattoo. He's great in a fight, our Andrew.

Knows some karate, once did a little boxing, he has no reason to be afraid.

He walks around like he owns the night. Especially when there's nobody

around. So what's that on the wind? Sounds like someone breathing, someone

close by. Very even, slow, steady, powerful. Where is the bastard? You can

see in all directions, but there's no one in sight. What, then? Do you think

it's in your head? That doesn't seem likely. Andrew stands still for a

moment. He wants to figure this out for himself, but I can't help giving him

hints, so the lace of his left sand-shoe comes undone. He puts down the jar

and crouches to retie it. The ground, it seems, is breathing. Andrew frowns.

He's not happy about this. He puts one ear against the footpath, then pulls

his head away, startled by the sound's proximity. Under that slab of paving,

he could swear. A gas leak! Fuck it, of course. A gas leak, or something like

that. Something mechanical. An explanation. Pipes, water, gas, pumps, shit,

who knows? Yeah. There's a whole world of machinery just below the street,

enough machinery to explain anything. But it felt pretty strange for a while

there, didn't it? He picks up the jar. The paving slab vibrates. He plants a

foot on it, to suggest that it stays put, but it does not heed his weight. I

toss it gently into the air, knocking him aside into somebody's ugly letter

box. The contract is singing to me now. Ah, blessed, beautiful document! I

hear you. Did I ever truly resent you? Surely not! For to kill with you as my

accomplice, even once, is sweeter by far than the grossest bloodbath I can

dream of, without your steady voice, your calm authority, your proud mask of

justice. Forgive me! In the daylight I am a different creature, irritable and

weak. Now we are in harmony, now we are in blissful accord. Our purposes are

one. Sing on! Andrew comes forward cautiously, sniffing for gas, a little

uneasy but determined to view the comprehensible cause. A deep, black hole.

He squats beside it, leans over, strains his eyes but makes out nothing. I

inhale. Mrs Bold has come to see me. She is Chairman of the local Citizens

Against Crime, those twelve fine men and women from whose dreams (chiefly,

but not exclusively) I was formed. They've just passed a motion

congratulating me (and hence themselves) on a successful first month.

Burglaries, says Mrs Bold, have plummeted. “The initial contract, you

understand, is only for three months, but I'm almost certain we'll want to

extend it. There's a clause allowing for that, one month at a time.” “Both

parties willing.” “Of course. We were all of us determined that the contract

be scrupulously fair. You mustn't think of yourself as our slave.” “I

don't.” “You're our business associate. We all agreed from the start that that

was the proper relationship. But you do like it here, don't you?” “Very

much.” “We can't increase the payment, you know. Six thousand a month, well,

we've really had to scrape to manage that much. Worth every cent, of course,

but … ” That's a massive lie, of course: six thousand is the very least they

could bring themselves to pay me. Anything less would have left them

wondering if they really owned me. The money helps them trust me, the money

makes it all familiar: they're used to buying people. If they'd got me for

free, they'd never sleep at night. These are fine people, understand. “Relax,

Mrs Bold. I won't ask for another penny. And I expect to be here for a very

long time.” “Oh, that's wonderful. Come the end of the year I'll be talking to

the insurance companies about dropping the outrageous premiums. You've no

idea how hard it's been for the small retailers.” She is ten feet from the

doorway of my room, peering in through the fog of condensed humidity. With

the dry ice and chains she can see very little of me, but this meagre view is

enough to engender wicked thoughts. Who can blame her? I'm straight out of

her dreams, after all. Would you indeed, Mrs Bold? I wonder. She feels two

strong hands caressing her gently. Three strong hands. Four, five, six. Such

manly hands, except the nails are rather long. And sharp. “Do you really have

to stay in there? Trussed up like that?” Her voice is even, quite a feat.

“We're having celebratory drinks at my house tomorrow, and you'd be very

welcome.” “You're so kind, Mrs Bold, but for now I do have to stay here. Like

this. Some other time, I promise.” She shakes the hands away. I could insist,

but I'm such a gentleman. “Some other time, then.” “Goodbye, Mrs

Bold.” “Goodbye. Keep up the good work. Oh, I nearly forgot! I have a little

gift.” She pulls a brown-wrapped shape from her shopping bag. “Do you like

lamb?” “You're too generous!” “Not me. Mr Simmons, the butcher, thought you

might like it. He's a lovely old man. He used to lose so much stock before

you started work, not to mention the vandalism. Where shall I put it?” “Hold

it towards me from where you are now. Stretch out your arms.” Lying still, ten

feet away, I burst the brown paper into four segments which flutter to the

floor. Mrs Bold blinks but does not flinch. The red, wet flesh is

disgustingly cold, but I'm far too polite to refuse any offering. A stream of

meat flows from the joint, through the doorway, to vanish in the mist around

my head. I spin the bone, pivoted on her palms, working around it several

times until it is clean and white, then I tip it from her grip so that it

points towards me, and I suck out the marrow in a single, quick spurt. Mrs

Bold sighs deeply, then shakes her head, smiling. “I wish my husband ate like

that! He's become a vegetarian, you know. I keep telling him it's unnatural,

but he pays no attention. Red meat has had such a bad name lately, with all

those stupid scientists scaremongering, saying it causes this and that, but I

personally can't see how any one can live without it and feel that they're

having a balanced diet. We were meant to eat it, that's just the way people

are.” “You're absolutely right. Please thank Mr Simmons for me.” “I shall.

And thank you again, for what you're doing for this community.” “My

pleasure.” Mrs Bold dreams of me. Me? His face is like a film star's! There

are a few factual touches, though: we writhe on a plain of ice, and I am

draped in chains. It's a strange kind of feedback, to see your dreams made

flesh, and then to dream of what you saw. Can she really believe that the

solid, sweating creature in the fall-out shelter is no more and no less than

the insubstantial lover who knows her every wish? In her dream I am a noble

protector, keeping her and her daughters safe from rapists, her son safe from

pushers, her domestic appliances safe from thieves; and yes, I do these

things, but if she knew why she'd run screaming from her bed. In her dream I

bite her, but my teeth don't break the skin. I scratch her, but only as much

as she needs to enjoy me. I could shape this dream into a nightmare, but why

telegraph the truth? I could wake her in a sweat of blood, but why let the

sheep know it's headed for slaughter? Let her believe that I'm content to

keep the wolves at bay. David's still awake, reading. I rustle his curtain but

he doesn't look up. He makes a rude sign, though, aimed with precision. A

curious child. He can't have seen the contract, he can't know that I can't

yet harm him, so why does he treat me with nonchalant contempt? Does he lack

imagination? Does he fancy himself brave? I can't tell. Street lamps go off

at eleven now; they used to stay on all night, but that's no longer

necessary. Most windows are dark; behind one a man dreams he's punching his

boss, again and again, brutal, unflinching, insistent, with the rhythm of a

factory process, a glassy eyed jogger, or some other machine. His wife thinks

she's cutting up the children; the act appals her, and she's hunting

desperately for a logical flaw or surreal piece of furniture to prove that

the violence will be consequence-free. She's still hunting. The children have

other things to worry about: they're dreaming of a creature eight feet tall,

with talons and teeth as long and sharp as carving knives, hungry as a wild

fire and stronger than steel. It lives deep in the ground, but it has very,

very, very long arms. When they're good the creature may not touch them, but

if they do just one thing wrong … I love this suburb. I honestly do. How

could I not, born as I was from its sleeping soul? These are my people. As I

rise up through the heavy night heat, and more and more of my domain flows

into sight, I am moved almost to tears by the beauty of all that I see and

sense. Part of me says: sentimental fool! But the choking feeling will not

subside. Some of my creators have lived here all their lives, and a fraction

of their pride and contentment flows in my veins. A lone car roars on home. A

blue police van is parked outside a brothel; inside, handcuffs and guns are

supplied by the management: they look real, they feel real, but no one gets

hurt. One cop's been here twice a week for three years, the other's been

dragged along to have his problem cured: squeezing the trigger makes him

wince, even at target practice. From tonight he'll never flinch again. The

woman thinks: I'd like to take a trip. Very soon. To somewhere cold. My life

smells of men's sweat. I hear a husband and wife screaming at each other. It

echoes for blocks, with dogs and babies joining in. I steer away, it's not my

kind of brawl. Linda has a spray can. Hi Linda, like your hair-cut. Do you

know how much that poster cost? What do you mean, sexist pornography? The

people who designed it are creative geniuses, haven't you heard them say so?

Besides, what do you call those posters of torn-shirted actors and

tight-trousered rock stars all over your bedroom walls? And how would you

like it if the agency sent thugs around to spray your walls with nasty

slogans? You don't force your images on the public? They'll have to read your

words, won't they? Answering? Debating? Redressing the imbalance? Cut it out,

Linda, come down to earth. No, lower. Lower still. Hair gel gives me

heartburn. I must remember that. Bruno, Pete and Colin have a way with locked

cars. Alarms are no problem. So fast, so simple; I'm deeply impressed. But the

engine's making too much noise, boys, you're waking honest workers who need

their eight hours' sleep. It's exhilarating, though, I have to admit that:

squealing around every corner, zooming down the wrong side of the road. Part

of the thrill, of course, is the risk of getting caught. They screech to a

halt near an all-night liquor store. The cashier takes their money, but

that's his business; selling alcohol to minors is not on my list. On the way

back, Pete drops a dollar coin between the bars of a storm water drain. The

cashier has his radio up very loud, and his eyes are on his magazine. Bruno

vomits as he runs, while Pete and Collin's bones crackle and crunch their way

through the grille. Bruno heads, incredibly, for the police station. Deep

down, he feels that he is good. A little wild, that's all, a rebel, a minor

non-conformist in the honourable tradition. He messes around with other

people's property, he drinks illegally, he drives illegally, he screws girls

as young as himself, illegally, but he has a heart of gold, and he'd never

hurt a fly (except in self-defence). Half this country's heroes have been

twice as bad as him. The archetype (he begs me) is no law-abiding puritan

goody-goody. Put a sock in it, Bruno. This is Mrs Bold and friends talking:

it's just your kind of thoughtless hooliganism that's sapping this nation's

strength. Don't try invoking Ned Kelly with us! In any case (Bruno knew this

was coming), we're third generation Australians, and you're only second, so

we'll judge the archetypes, thank you very much! The sergeant on duty might

have seen a boy's skeleton run one step out of its flesh before collapsing,

but I doubt it. With the light so strong inside, so weak outside, he probably

saw nothing but his own reflection. David's still up. Disgraceful child! I

belch in his room with the stench of fresh blood; he raises one eyebrow then

farts, louder and more foul. Mrs Bold is still dreaming. I watch myself as she

imagines me: so handsome, so powerful, bulging with ludicrous muscles yet

gentle as a kitten. She whispers in “my” ear: Never leave me! Unable to

resist, I touch her, very briefly, with a hand she's never felt before: the

hand that brought me Linda, the hand that brought me Pete. The long, cold

tongue of a venomous snake darts from the tip of her dream-lover's over-sized

cock. She wakes with a shout, bent double with revulsion, but the dream is

already forgotten. I blow her a kiss and depart. It's been a good

night. David knows that something's up. He's the smartest kid for a hundred

miles, but it will do him no good. When the contract expires there'll be

nothing to hold me. A clause allowing for an extension! Both parties willing!

Ah, the folly of amateur lawyers! What do they think will happen when I

choose not to take up the option? The contract, the only force they have, is

silent. They dreamed it into being together with me, a magical covenant that

I literally cannot disobey, but they stuffed up the details, they failed with

the fine print. I suppose it's difficult to dream with precision, to

concentrate on clauses while your mind is awash with equal parts of lust and

revenge. Well, I'm not going to magically dissolve into dream-stuff. I'll be

staying right here, in this comfortable basement, but without the chains,

without the dry ice. I'll be done with the feverish torture of abstinence,

when the contract expires. David sits in the sunshine, talking with his

friends. “What will we do when the monster breaks loose?” “Hide!” “He can find

us anywhere.” “Get on a plane. He couldn't reach us on a plane.” “Who's got

that much money?” Nobody. “We have to kill him. Kill him before he can get

us.” “How?” How indeed, little David? With a sling-shot? With your puny little

fists? Be warned: trespass is a serious crime, so is attempted murder, and I

have very little patience with criminals. “I'll think of a way.” He stares up

into the blue sky. “Hey, monster! We're gonna get you! Chop you into pieces

and eat you for dinner! Yum, yum, you're delicious!” The ritual phrases are

just for the little kids, who squeal with delight at the audacity of such

table-turning. Behind the word sounds, behind his stare, David is planning

something very carefully. His mind is in a blind spot, I can't tell what he's

up to, but forget it, David, whatever it is. I can see your future, and it's

a big red stain, swarming with flies. “Hey monster! If you don't like it, come

and get me! Come and get me now!” The youngest cover their eyes, not knowing

if they want to giggle or scream. “Come on, you dirty coward! Come and chew

me in half, if you can!” He jumps to his feet, dances around like a wounded

gorilla. “That's how you look, that's how you walk! You're ugly and you're

sick and you're a filthy fucking coward! If you don't come out and face me,

then everything I say about you is true, and every one will know it!” I write

in the sand: NEXT THURSDAY. MIDNIGHT. A little girl screams, and her brother

starts crying. This is no longer fun, is it? Tell Mummy how that nasty David

frightened you. David bellows: “Now! Come here now!” I deepen the letters,

then fill them with the blood of innocent burrowing creatures. David scuffs

over the words with one foot, then fills his lungs and roars like a lunatic:

“NOW!” I throw half a ton of sand skywards, and it rains down into their hair

and eyes. Children scatter, but David stands his ground. He kneels on the

sand, talks to me in a whisper: “What are you afraid of?” I whisper back:

“Nothing, child.” “Don't you want to kill me? That's what you keep

saying.” “Don't fret, child, I'll kill you soon.” “Kill me now. If you

can.” “You can wait, David. When the time comes it will be worth all the

waiting. But tell your mother to buy herself a new scrubbing brush, there'll

be an awful lot of cleaning up to do.” “Why should I wait? What are you

waiting for? Are you feeling weak today? Are you feeling ill? Is it too much

effort, a little thing like killing me?” This child is becoming an

irritation. “The time must be right.” He laughs out loud, then pushes his

hands into the sand. “Bullshit! You're afraid of me!” There's nobody in

sight, he has the park to himself now; if he's acting, he's acting for me

alone. Perhaps he is insane. He buries his arms half-way to his elbows, and I

can sense him reaching for me; he imagines his arms growing longer and

longer, tunnelling through the ground, seeking me out. “Come on! Grab me! I

dare you to try it! Fucking coward!” For a while I am silent, relaxed. I will

ignore him. Why waste my time exchanging threats with an infant? I notice

that I've broken my chains in several places, and burnt a deep hollow in the

dry ice around me. It suddenly strikes me as pathetic, to need such

paraphernalia simply in order to fast. Why couldn't those incompetent

dreamers achieve what they claimed to be aiming for: a dispassionate

executioner, a calm, efficient tradesman? I know why: I come from deeper

dreams than they would ever willingly acknowledge; my motives are their

motives, exposed, with a vengeance. Well, six more days will bring the end of

all fasting. Only six more days. My breathing, usually so measured, is

ragged, uncertain. In David's mind, his hands have reached this room. “Don't

you want to eat me? Monster? Aren't you hungry today?” With hard, sharp claws

I grab his hands, and, half a mile away, he feels my touch. The faintest

tremor passes through his arms, but he doesn't pull back. He closes his hands

on the claws he feels in the sand, he grips them with all his irrelevant

strength. “OK, monster. I've got you now. Come up and fight.” He strains for

ten seconds with no effect. I slam him down into the loose yellow sand,

armpit deep, and blood trickles from his nose. The agony of infraction burns

through my guts, while the hunger brought on by the smell of his blood grips

every muscle in my body and commands me to kill him. I bellow with

Greg Egan - SS - Neighbourhood Watch.pdf

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